


this thing called love (i just can't handle it)

by EmAndFandems



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Fluff, Fluff without Plot, Holding Hands, M/M, Nail Polish, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-29
Updated: 2020-07-29
Packaged: 2021-03-06 07:29:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,354
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25599595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EmAndFandems/pseuds/EmAndFandems
Summary: Crowley's painting his nails. Aziraphale thinks it looks like fun.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 72
Kudos: 259





	this thing called love (i just can't handle it)

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Queen's "Crazy Little Thing Called Love." Look, I have no excuse for this fic, I just wanted to see it. Enjoy.

Aziraphale is staring at Crowley's fingers. Crowley doesn't notice, which is why Aziraphale allows himself to continue. Crowley's attention is occupied with the little bottle and brush. His tongue is just poking past his teeth and Aziraphale doesn't know whether to look at that or at the smooth strokes of black spreading across sharp nails.

"It's very nice," he says, "although I do wish you hadn't brought that smell into this room." Which is as close as he'll get to saying _Bring it to the front and scare off the customers, won't you._

Crowley grins like he hears it anyway. "Can't be helped, I'm afraid. You ought to understand, your nails're always all fancied up."

It is certainly true that Aziraphale makes a point of maintaining his manicure. He has frequented the same salon for the past forty years, and is beginning to have the regretful sense that he should move on lest the staff notice how he hasn't aged. But the process of sitting for a manicure, the ritual of it, is one of his favorite human customs. It'll hurt to uproot and find another place to form a habit of attending, so Aziraphale postpones the thought. "I don't get mine painted," he points out. Shined and trimmed and buffed, yes; lotioned and perfumed, yes; turned extraordinary colors, no.

"Mm. Could do, though." Crowley hisses in annoyance as a fleck of nail varnish lands in his lap. He glares at it until the liquid dissolves itself into the fabric, black on black to leave no trace.

"I hardly think it would match my outfit," says Aziraphale, only half-listening to himself. Crowley's hair is coming loose from its tie and with both hands in use, Crowley can't tuck it back into place: there's now a stray curl sneaking towards dangling in his face. Crowley makes a halfhearted attempt to blow it out of the way. Aziraphale twists restless fingers in his lap.

"They make all sorts of colors, y'know," Crowley tells him, amused, and apparently resolves to ignore the wayward hair. "It's not all black and jewel tones. Any color you like, they've got. Shades for every occasion. And every outfit palette."

Aziraphale knows this, of course, but somehow he hadn't put together that there could be a nail varnish for _him_. "Well... What would you recommend?"

Crowley screws the little brush back into its bottle and sets it down to consider. He's only halfway through; his right hand's painted, wet and shiny in the soft light of the bookshop's backroom, but his left is still blank. Aziraphale is so used to seeing them black-nailed that Crowley's fingers unadorned look strangely incomplete. Or, no, not unfinished but unfamiliar. Like he hasn't memorized their shape. It's an opportunity to stare at them some more, or an excuse. Aziraphale takes it.

And as he studies Crowley's fingers (long and thin and pale, and how would they feel against his? Aziraphale doesn't know. Does he want to?), Crowley is studying him. Aziraphale has never been much for self-consciousness, but he is suddenly very aware of himself. What does he look like to Crowley?

"You want a color or just a neutral tone?" When Aziraphale shrugs, Crowley bites his lip before declaring, "Gold."

"Gold?" Aziraphale examines his own hands. The prospect isn't unappealing. "Do you think?"

Crowley holds out a tiny container that he certainly wasn't holding moments before. Its contents shimmer. "Have a go. Could always take it off again if it doesn't strike your fancy."

Aziraphale does not take the varnish. "Oh, I couldn't possibly," he says. "I've never done anything like it myself. I'd only make a dreadful mess."

"Mine're about dry now," says Crowley, in direct contradiction of the logic that governs nail varnish's drying rate-- which is to say, it is wet as long as it is inconvenient to be so. Crowley's nail varnish, like the rest of his possessions, obeys his expectations with frightened swiftness. "I could take a break and do yours?"

Aziraphale knows what the questioning tone means: Crowley isn't sure Aziraphale will agree to the suggestion he's put forth. It's the same voice he used when putting forth the idea that not every dinner needs a dessert. Aziraphale chews the inside of his cheek and holds out one hand.

Crowley's fingers on his, it turns out, are extremely gentle. One hand holds Aziraphale's steady while the other contrives to open the gold varnish on its own. "Try an' stay still," Crowley tells him, as if Aziraphale is capable of moving from this spot, and lowers the brush to the littlest finger of his right hand.

"Why do you do the right first?" Aziraphale says, hushed so he doesn't distract Crowley from this very important business. "I would have assumed you'd prefer to begin with your non-dominant hand. Isn't it easier to paint your left?"

"Mm." Crowley takes a moment to dip the brush back into the bottle to refresh it; the last stroke he'd applied was too thin. He wipes the excess on the rim, so it won't drip, and brings it back to Aziraphale's waiting hand. "But if you start with the left you've gotta do your right with wet fingers. S'hard enough doing the right dry. My right hand can be careful while wet. Left's sloppy."

"That's... logical." Aziraphale's voice is strained: Crowley's shifted his left hand to better grasp at the object of his efforts and Aziraphale is acutely aware of how much skin is touching Crowley. When the right hand's finished, Crowley reaches for his left. "Oh! Wait a moment, dear."

Aziraphale brushes aside the piece of hair in Crowley's face, holding his breath. Their faces are so close together. Crowley isn't breathing either. "Thanks," he whispers, and he isn't wearing the sunglasses today, and this eye contact is the most intimate moment of Aziraphale's exceedingly long life.

"Of course," he says, breathless, and the moment is broken. Crowley gets to work on the other hand. Aziraphale wiggles his right hand's fingers and admires the shine of wet varnish. He blows on them and Crowley yelps.

"Don't do that!" he scolds. "Makes 'em less shiny when they're dry."

"Is that true? Goodness."

Crowley pauses to shrug. "Never checked if it's true, I just don't do it."

"Safe enough," says Aziraphale, nodding at this display of sensibleness. "Do you have the, um. The… clear one? To go over it?"

"How d'you know about topcoat?" Crowley demands. "You've been holding out on me, angel. Anyway, yeah, s'over there, but you've gotta wait for it to be dry all the way."

And so it goes. Hand in hand, liquidy gold cool against the warmth of fingers, mostly quiet. When Crowley’s through with Aziraphale’s other hand, he screws the little bottle closed and resumes doing his own nails while Aziraphale waits.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale asks, eventually. “How do you know when they’re ready?”

He hums. “Tap ’em. The littlest finger first, less to fix if you’re wrong.”

Aziraphale does so, gently. “It’s— Hm. Sticky,” he declares, making a face.

“Not yet, then.” Crowley glances up from his work. “Need it refreshed?”

An examination brings the result that no, he hasn’t wrecked Crowley’s paint job. Aziraphale shakes his head. Crowley returns to his varnish. Aziraphale observes. The delicacy of Crowley’s movements, the careful attention: he’s as much a work of art as what he’s producing. A few more minutes, and Crowley admires his handiwork, holding up his hands to the light. Aziraphale has to look away.

He taps at his nail again and meets with more favourable results. “I think,” he says, “I think it’s ready for the… What did you call it? The coat on top.”

“Topcoat,” Crowley says, laughing and brilliant, and holds out his hand. “Here, then, I’ll do it.”

Again Aziraphale puts his hands in— well, in Crowley’s hands. Again he watches the glide of the varnish brush. When both hands are covered in the protective transparent layer, the shop’s doorbell rings.

“You can’t touch anything,” Crowley warns, and Aziraphale beams.

“Oh, I know,” he says, standing. “I’m only going out to tell that to the customer.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Spare a comment?


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